Read Online Dollhouse by and Khloé Kardashian Kim Kourtney - Free Book Online
Authors: and Khloé Kardashian Kim Kourtney
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Weird. She headed into the club as well, wishing she had brought a date. Since she’d broken up with Finn (his reaction to Simone’s cell-phone pix of him with the red-haired slore had told her everything she needed to know), she hadn’t been seeing anyone seriously. But even Kass or Simone would have been better than coming here alone.
Although she hadn’t technically come alone. Giles had picked her up in his awesome silver Rolls and brought her to this event, which was a launch party for a new clothing line by the fourteen-year-old daughter of an aging pop star. Kamille had never been to a launch party before. She had barely even known what a launch party was, before Giles.
Really, she owed him so much. In less than six weeks, she had gone from having exactly zero job prospects, unless she counted working at her mom’s restaurant, to being a famous model. (Well, maybe more like “on her way to becoming famous.”) And in addition to starting a real career and making real money, she was enjoying a total lifestyle upgrade as well, hanging out at fabulous restaurants, fabulous clubs, fabulous parties. She wasn’t exactly a fixture in the scene, and she didn’t know many celebrities—yet. But she was getting there. It was what she had always dreamed of, ever since her father’s death and the subsequent upheaval. Soon Kamille wouldn’t have to worry about maxed-out credit cards or having to shop at consignment stores ever again.
Speaking of Giles . . . where was he, anyway? He had introduced her to the completely rude (but insanely hot) Milo out front and then disappeared to take a call, leaving her to trail behind the male model on the red carpet like a stray puppy. Kamille tried to remember if she had ever been on a red carpet before. Maybe just once, when she was three or four, when her father had been nominated for an Oscar . She barely remembered her brief, confusing foray past the noisy gauntlet of reporters as her father held her tightly in his arms. She recalled blinking sleepily at the flashbulbs—she’d skipped her nap that day—and feeling so uncomfortable in her crinkly gold taffeta dress.
Inside the crowded club, Kamille glanced around. The fourteen-year-old fashion designer (it was hard to think of her that way . . . she was so young ), who was sporting one of her creations (a skintight red maxidress that made her look like a giant LEGO), was gyrating on the dance floor with a dozen drunk teens as a giant clown rode by on a tricycle (WTF?). A waitress in a tank top and thong and nothing else came by and offered Kamille a tray of what looked like raw octopus tentacles. Kamille couldn’t say no fast enough. What she really needed was a drink. The bar. Where was the bar?
“Are you lost?”
Kamille turned around at the sound of the friendly male voice and found herself staring into the most amazing pair of blue eyes, ever. The eyes went with a chiseled jaw, curly blond hair, and big, muscular shoulders. God, who was this guy?
“Are you okay? Can I get you anything?” he went on.
Actually, he looked kind of familiar. “Do I . . . know you?” she asked him hesitantly.
“You do now. I’m Chase. Chase Goodall.” He held out his hand.
Chase Goodall . . . Chase Goodall . . . And then it came to her.
“You’re the baseball player!” Kamille exclaimed. “You play for the Dodgers, right? I’ve seen you on TV.” She’d also seen him in Simone’s Hunks of Major League Baseball calendar, at her apartment. Simone had made some crass comment once about spending a fun night in with Chase’s picture and her favorite dildo. Kamille shook his hand.
Chase grinned. “Guilty. And you’ve gotta be an actress or a model. You’re way too beautiful not to be.”
Kamille felt herself blushing. “I just started modeling. My first ad just came out, for this French perfume called Lolita, but you probably don’t know it, since you’re a guy and all,” she babbled.
“Wow,
Although she hadn’t technically come alone. Giles had picked her up in his awesome silver Rolls and brought her to this event, which was a launch party for a new clothing line by the fourteen-year-old daughter of an aging pop star. Kamille had never been to a launch party before. She had barely even known what a launch party was, before Giles.
Really, she owed him so much. In less than six weeks, she had gone from having exactly zero job prospects, unless she counted working at her mom’s restaurant, to being a famous model. (Well, maybe more like “on her way to becoming famous.”) And in addition to starting a real career and making real money, she was enjoying a total lifestyle upgrade as well, hanging out at fabulous restaurants, fabulous clubs, fabulous parties. She wasn’t exactly a fixture in the scene, and she didn’t know many celebrities—yet. But she was getting there. It was what she had always dreamed of, ever since her father’s death and the subsequent upheaval. Soon Kamille wouldn’t have to worry about maxed-out credit cards or having to shop at consignment stores ever again.
Speaking of Giles . . . where was he, anyway? He had introduced her to the completely rude (but insanely hot) Milo out front and then disappeared to take a call, leaving her to trail behind the male model on the red carpet like a stray puppy. Kamille tried to remember if she had ever been on a red carpet before. Maybe just once, when she was three or four, when her father had been nominated for an Oscar . She barely remembered her brief, confusing foray past the noisy gauntlet of reporters as her father held her tightly in his arms. She recalled blinking sleepily at the flashbulbs—she’d skipped her nap that day—and feeling so uncomfortable in her crinkly gold taffeta dress.
Inside the crowded club, Kamille glanced around. The fourteen-year-old fashion designer (it was hard to think of her that way . . . she was so young ), who was sporting one of her creations (a skintight red maxidress that made her look like a giant LEGO), was gyrating on the dance floor with a dozen drunk teens as a giant clown rode by on a tricycle (WTF?). A waitress in a tank top and thong and nothing else came by and offered Kamille a tray of what looked like raw octopus tentacles. Kamille couldn’t say no fast enough. What she really needed was a drink. The bar. Where was the bar?
“Are you lost?”
Kamille turned around at the sound of the friendly male voice and found herself staring into the most amazing pair of blue eyes, ever. The eyes went with a chiseled jaw, curly blond hair, and big, muscular shoulders. God, who was this guy?
“Are you okay? Can I get you anything?” he went on.
Actually, he looked kind of familiar. “Do I . . . know you?” she asked him hesitantly.
“You do now. I’m Chase. Chase Goodall.” He held out his hand.
Chase Goodall . . . Chase Goodall . . . And then it came to her.
“You’re the baseball player!” Kamille exclaimed. “You play for the Dodgers, right? I’ve seen you on TV.” She’d also seen him in Simone’s Hunks of Major League Baseball calendar, at her apartment. Simone had made some crass comment once about spending a fun night in with Chase’s picture and her favorite dildo. Kamille shook his hand.
Chase grinned. “Guilty. And you’ve gotta be an actress or a model. You’re way too beautiful not to be.”
Kamille felt herself blushing. “I just started modeling. My first ad just came out, for this French perfume called Lolita, but you probably don’t know it, since you’re a guy and all,” she babbled.
“Wow,
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